


Love of Mine

by iamyourownforever (Keepcalmanddontgetangry)



Series: e/R - Canon Era [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, M/M, Morning Sex, POV First Person, Present Tense, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepcalmanddontgetangry/pseuds/iamyourownforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lazy morning sex from Grantaire's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> If this work is ever removed from this site it shall be done by me.

Love of mine, never could I have imagined that it would be my bed that you came to crawl into. It was right of me to lend you a key. I am glad that I gave it to you; not that I do not doubt your ability to break down doors. You have already, long ago, broken down the door that sealed my heart. Though it had been boarded up with bars of doubt; stiff with the fear of longing, and guarded by disbelief.

Or, perhaps, you have always held the key. This too can easily be true. Either way, I shan't be asking for the key back. Not if this is what it leads to.

It is now morning.  For the longest time, upon waking, I have laid still next to you. I am afraid that if I were to open my eyes, in this second or the next, you would be nothing more than an apparition. The faint memory of you unlocking my door, finding my bed, being nothing but the best of dreams.

Yet what would then explain the arms that are wound so tight around my waist? Could the birds outside make a sweet a sound as your breathing? And what is that scent, that fills my stomach, with fireworks that shoot towards my groin, if not you? Do my senses lie to me? They have before, that is certain, but I am of clear head. Almost.

This morning I am drunk on you.

It takes far too much personal persuasion to lift myself from you. To my surprise, your arms protest by tightening around me. The sound you make, in complaint, is comical. I hold back my laughter; I did not mean to wake you.

"...Grantaire? ...Stay."

Your voice is full of sleep. That does not stop your message from being clear. It was easy to decide to stay; even before you made it a command. Tell me, Enjolras, if you were me, how could I stay away?

I smile as I look over you. I am most definitely awake, and not dreaming. I note your virtue. Even in a sleep deprived state, while sneaking into someone else's bedroom, you have the sense to remove your shirt and fold it over a chair.

The early morning sunlight washes over your bare back. It highlights the curve of your spine. The sheets have fallen just below your waist, and I am glad that you are on top of me to keep me warm. For once it is you who is warm; stealing my heat too, as well as my bed, no doubt. I give them both to you willingly. Never shall there be a reason for you to steal them from me.

My hands run down your back. They admire the points in your shoulder blades, and memorise the softness of your skin. Soft despite the betrayal that you express. I kiss your forehead, your hand over my heart. You are heavy in my arms. I would not have it any other way. It is a change in your breathing that tells me you are now awake.

"Good morning." _You are safe here._ "Did you sleep well?" _Nothing will hurt you under my, well... rented, roof._

I have to get up for a moment. My bladder is full, my throat dry, my mouth dirty-- not because of you, that I could stand. As much as you complain, sleep gets the better of you; even as I knock over an empty bottle from my night before. It seems that, without a reason to stay awake, you find it better to sleep. This I cannot blame you for, though I am honoured that you would find me that reason.

I indulge in you a moment longer at the sight of you in my bed. Out of all the beds in Paris you could go to, out of all the doors that would be open to you, it is mine you chose. I would take more time to wonder why if I did not have to piss.

It is not long until I am by my bedside again. Returned to you. Of course it would be impossible to stay away for too long. We call for each other, I am certain.

You probably do not think the same.

"Grantaire! Your hands are cold! Must you wake me with them?"

I grin to myself, my hands flat against your stomach.

"You know that I must, Enjolras," I say. "Your stomach is so warm, it must have been created with the purpose to heat my hands!"

"You are an oaf."

"And you are in my bed."

Any kind of morning wrestling I can recommend. With ease, on your part, I am pinned beneath you. My arms hook around your neck before you grab them both and hold them above my head. The bed creaks. I press my feet to your thighs. It cannot be as bad a move as you make it out. I take it to be the reason that you fall back between my legs, wrapping yourself around me once again.

Our squabble turns to love, as I hope they always shall. You bury your face into my neck. My hand finds the back of your head. My fingers look out of place tangled in your hair. This is the least of your worries, it seems, as you lean over me to bring our lips together.

Kissing you is a dream.

Your front teeth knock against mine when you open your mouth. Our tongues greet each other. They are well acquainted, though visits between them are far too few.

My eyes close as I pull you down, closer, to me. You tug at my hair, beckoning me to open them. They should have never shut. We are now face to face. I am able to look into your eyes as you smile.

"Good morning, Grantaire." One hand is still holding my arm. We take each other's hand.

"Good morning," I reply, only just able to. I am rendered breathless by the sight of you. "Love of mine."

If you falter at my words I refuse to see it.

"You are still drunk," you scold instead, kissing my jaw.

I gaze up to the ceiling. Your mouth continues its journey down my neck, sucking my Adam's apple as if it were a real fruit.

"You are mistaken," I say, if only for you to feel the words form from my throat and find their way into your mouth. "I am not drunk."

You hover over me and I offer you a lazy smile, which, to my surprise, you return.

"You're high on something," you accuse in a playful tone, moving down the bed to be level with my chest. "What it is, I do wonder?"

"As if you don't already know." My voice is even, despite your deciding to mouth my left nipple. It erects while in your hold. You bite it almost mercilessly. "What, in this room, is there for me to get high on?"

I mean for it to be a clue. However, I hear for myself how foolish my question must sound to you as you glance at me.

With a sly wink you reply, "I dread to think."

The exchange of our smiles comes to a halt as you suck the nipple on my right.

"It is you! Of course it is you!" I raise my chest to meet your mouth. You laugh before you bite. "Enjolras," I say as my fingers sweep through your hair. I am caught off guard by how the light reflects from every blond lock. "Enjolras, you are welcome to keep your mouth to yourself."

You have already travelled further down the expanse of my body. Running over strict borders with your tongue.

"Do you want me to keep my mouth to myself?"

Your tongue dips into my navel. My legs bend to accommodate your cheek.

"No," I say. It is common understanding between us that any other reply would have been an utter lie.

"It is not fair that you should be drunk on me already, Grantaire," you say, resting your chin on the bone of my hip. I am certain your neck can already feel the enlargement of my groin. "I want to be drunk on you. Would you not permit me that?"

"I do permit it," I say, playing with a curl that has fallen over your forehead. You are smiling at me and my heart jumps at the joy this brings. You know that I could not deny you anything, not even if I tried.

My eyes stay on you as you swallow me. The top of your head is all I can see between my legs. Yet I know, from experience, that even though I cannot see what you are doing, does not mean you are incapable.

I keep your hair from falling into your face. My hips dance in time with your mouth. We move to the rhythm of our pulsing hearts. The song speeds up. My back arches to keep up with the beat of your tongue. Your timing is effortless; your steps relentless. In no time at all my song is over; making way for yours. I end it with a note from my own throat. You drink your fill. Dancing is thirsty work.

It takes some time for us both to reclaim our breath. You stay between my legs, waiting until I am soft. You are near to falling off the end of my bed. I hold onto your shoulders to stop you from slipping.

"Are you drunk yet, Enjolras?" I tease, wiping the sweat from your brow with the corner of my sheets. I spot my semen on your chin. "If you are not, there is always a seat for you at my bar."

The crude jerk of my head indicates what I mean. Though I know you are well accustomed to my sour mouth to know exactly what I mean. I rest my head against my pillow. You stand over me to strip naked. It is the leanness of your legs that I take notice of as you perch on my chin. They fold beside my ears. One hand reaches out to hold my bedpost for support.

I am not easy on you. Your body shakes as I suck your bollocks and line the base of your penis with spit. But that is not my goal. My hands cup your buttocks as I delve inside you with my tongue. You may very well be the more skilled speaker, but that has never meant I do not know how to effectively use my mouth. My tongue darts in and out of you; spelling out words from your own song.

It does not take you long to ride in time to my rhythm; an example of your quick learning, as well as class. Your free hand jerks in time to me too, if not in slight desperation to keep up. I cannot, and will not, hold back your fragile moans that fill the air. When you come it is with the cry of my name. Your semen shoots over my head and onto the wall. I swear, Enjolras, I have never made anything as beautiful with paint and a brush. My ears burn. You collapse next to me. We are both glistening with sweat.

"Are you drunk on me yet?" I ask, kissing your nose before catching your lips with mine. I taste the salt.

Your fingers brush across my cheek. You thumb my bottom lip. "I fear for the hangover we shall both suffer from when we next wake."

We lie together again. Only this time I am on top of you. Our hands clasp together, I do not want to ever let go.

I kiss you as I close my eyes. My lips do not leave yours, not even as I speak. "If you are my drink of choice, I never want to be sober."

I feel you shake your head with a sad sigh. I dare not ask why.


End file.
